This Isn't Love
by Uphill Both Ways
Summary: This isn't love, it never could be. Shizuo/Izaya.


**Quotes: St. Augustine **_**Captain Corelli's Mandolin**_

******Izaya's perspective.**

* * *

This isn't love.

"_Love is madness_."

Sure, we are mad—hell, people call us _insane_—but our insanity lies within the deceit and abuse we throw at each other. The fights, whether we mean them to be or not, are far more than on the physical level, the cuts are deeper than they appear on the surface. The sheer mental capacity we fill with hatred and passion against each other is unfathomable, the way we torture each other's minds with verbal slaughter are the real wounds that time fails to heal. This—what we _do_ have; the twisted, insane, _inhuman_ tango we dance—it is not love.

It never could be.

"_It erupts like an earthquake then subsides_."

Shizuo, when you erupt there is no subsiding. The violence and destruction burst from you in an unpredictable instant. I suppose I'm the same, just testing the surface to see when you crack. Then there's the natural disaster of our relationship. It's one big eruption, whether through violence or lust—in the heat of the moment we never _bend_ to one another—no, we simply wait until the other _breaks_. But then, the cracks never quite go away, do they? Our disaster—our relationship, if one could call it that—is in a constant whirl of breaking barriers and shifting grounds, neither side will subside until the day the earth caves in on us, which is why this isn't love.

It never will be.

"_In love, your roots should become so entwined that it is inconceivable that you should ever part_."

You and I, we are so wrapped up and trapped in our web of games that I don't think it's possible for us to part. We've been aware of each other's existence for so long, that it would be impossible to ignore the departure of another; but only because after fueling so much abhorrence into someone, it's impossible to let that object of hateful desire go. The empty space would consume us both. But again, the way we are entwined, our roots are trying to choke each other out. Tangled up so finely, so _absolutely_—each one trying to better the other, wrapping so _firmly_ and _intricately_ around each other in an attempt to suffocate for survival--that there would be no way to separate our lives without killing each other. It is inconceivable that we should ever part—_fully_ and _completely_—but this is _survival_.

This is not love.

It never wanted to be.

"_Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion_."

For us, right now, breathlessness, excitement and the promulgation of promises of eternal torture are _all_ we have. The way the breath stings the raw backs of our throats, either after sex or just during a good quarrel, that breathlessness—that _daze_—that only you can give me and vice versa; it's sadomasochism in its finest. I don't think our games would continue this way if it weren't for the excitement—the utter thrill that your presence brings is simply overwhelming, I know you feel it too or you would've quite years ago. It's an _addiction_, an addiction to the thrill, to the chase, to each other—a sick obsession—the promise of danger, and pain is pleasure with adrenaline—the way we move, so practiced, so rhythmically, yet so _erratically_ and unstable, it's exciting to see where the next step of the dance will lead. Our erotic games of torture and masochism, _sweet lies and pleasure_—they are nothing more than the flames of our hell-washed souls licking at each other, constantly trying to consume the other while refusing to give in.

This is not love.

It never should be.

"_That is just being 'in love', which any of us can convince ourselves we are_."

_In love_? I don't think we ever really considered that kind of devotion a factor of our relationship—and it's better that way. They say, Shizuo, that opposites attract. Well you and I are about as opposite as it gets—but we happen to be _both_ sides of the same magnet, attracting and repelling at equal intervals—we are like cats and dogs. Your quick temper, hasty decisions, simple mind and physical exertion clash deliciously with my patience, thought out plans, brilliance and psychological abuse. It draws us together in the same way the sun draws in the planets and outshines the other stars competing for attention, and it repels us with a hatred and disgust that no other obsession could replace. Perhaps we are looking for what we lack in each other, savoring the qualities we envy and despise when we try and consummate each other. We don't bother trying to fool ourselves with the delusion of love, we are much too repulsed by the other to even want to be, no matter what words pass through our teeth in bed. What we have here; it's a wicked cycle of obsessions and bad habits that never fade.

This is not love.

It was never meant to be.

"_Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident_."

What will become of us once our flames die out? Have you ever wondered like I have, Shizuo? I don't think we ever predicted the flames to even loosen, let alone die. When the breathlessness, excitement, and promises fade away—will it be only with death? When the remains of our escapades have charred and dissolved like ashes, what then do we have left? Our accidents _are_ our art. If this tango were ever to just disappear, our lives would be like empty museums or galleries—the precious paintings burned in the flames of our mistakes along with dignity and pride. I must admit, I myself have never paused to wonder at what would be left once the pure hatred was burned away, I always assumed it would be nothing—our lives revolve around the other's demise, so what's left once we meet our demands? Perhaps it is why we never fully exert ourselves—go straight in for the kill when given the opportunity, because we _know_ that nothing is left once one of us is gone. Perhaps that's why we try and make up for what we cannot do in reality underneath the sheets, the battles we loose there are much more permanent, like tattoos on our hearts—_our very own art collection_—full of pain and pathless journeys.

This is not love.

It was never more than an excuse.

"_My lover and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two_."

There are moments, Shizuo, when I see us like the cherry blossoms that fall in spring. Spiraling aimlessly, pirouetting cleverly around each other before we hit the ground. I see us sometimes, as the roots that come so close together that they just mesh into one another, becoming one as if it made no difference in the world. And _maybe_, I sometimes wonder, it wouldn't. Those times when we're just relaxing next to each other, or recovering from intercourse, or even just talking without biting at each other with every word. These rare occasions—and since they call for rare circumstances—lead me into rare thoughts and desires, I know you feel them too, when we mold our hatred into something more tolerable—something that can so easily transcend the borderline of hate and love, something I know is impossible.

Because one of us always makes the first, the _next_, the _last_ move, because someone _always_ needs to play the trump card.

Because one of us will always be gone in the morning.

No, this is not love.

No matter how much we want it to be.


End file.
